


Soulmates

by cordelia_gray



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amulet, Coda, Fights, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-08
Updated: 2010-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordelia_gray/pseuds/cordelia_gray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knows that words alone won't fix this, so he tries to get Dean's attention another way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soulmates

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second-ever attempt at writing fanfic. I just had to have a stab at putting the broken boys back together. Any feedback lovingly cherished. Coda to "Dark Side of the Moon".

  
  
They're driving, again.  
  


  
Dean's not really sure where they are, or where they're going, which kind of proves Sam's point that Dean's in no condition to drive (something about “too much booze and not enough sleep” or whatever), not that Dean's going to admit any such thing to Sam. Where the hell does a guy who spent the better part of year jacked on demon blood get off judging Dean for drinking a little now and then?  


  
It doesn't really matter where they're going anyway, just as long as it's away from those blood-soaked motel beds. Another nameless little town crossed off Dean's mental map of America, another place they'll try never to visit or even think about. Palo Alto. Lawrence. Broward County. Cold Oak.  New Harmony. Carthage. If this keeps up, he thinks, they'll have to move to Mexico or something, they're gonna run out of memory-free places in the continental USA. But things can't keep on like this much longer. He's not even really sure why he's still here, why they're still doing this, why they're still together other than stubborn fucking habit.  


  
“Get some sleep,” Sam said, casting a worried look at his brother in shotgun. But _shotgun_ is just one more thing that means something completely different for each of them. Sam sleeps better in the moving Impala than anywhere else, the thrum of tyres on tarmac better than any lullaby, any fancy white-noise generator. When Dean was - gone - Sam slept in the car, pulled into a rest stop with Dean's jacket over his shoulders. It was pretty much the only sleep he got those months that didn't come at the bottom of a bottle of Jack. But it's he knows it's hard for Dean to be in the car and not be driving; it makes him restless, twitchy.

Of course, Dean's pretty twitchy all the time these days. He's running his mouth right now, afraid of silence, of giving Sam a chance to start talking about what just happened, or his feelings, or Dean's drinking, or whichever of Dean's many shortcomings he's got his panties in a bunch about now. He's bitching about the goddamn hunters who got the drop on them, like it's not bad enough fighting of the forces of Heaven and Hell, they've gotta be fighting the people who should be on their side too, the ones who should have their backs. Sam looks over at Dean, at the shadows like bruises under his eyes, and he can't stand it anymore. He swings the car off the road, gravel spitting from the tires as the car pulls into a rest stop.  


  
Dean's a little too strung out to follow what's happening. He feels slow, sluggish, muddled. He can only blink as Sam's hauling him bodily out of the car and onto his feet, standing him up in this parking lot in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere. Sam steps back and shakes the tension from his shoulders. Dean thinks for a minute that he's going to deck him or something, but instead, he says “I want you to hit me,” like he thinks he's fuckin' Brad Pitt in Fight Club.  


  
“What?” Dean says, not tracking this at all, not wanting to go here, wherever _here_ is.  


  
“C'mon, hit me. Right here.” Sam's patting his jaw, grinning at Dean all sharp and feral.  


  
Dean does.  


  
He takes a swing, but he can't really follow it through. He has no idea what's going on here, but it seems like a bad idea. This stupid game of Sam's can't possibly end up anywhere but with Dean alone and bleeding on the side of the road.  


  
Sam barely dignifies the blow with a response. “Come _on_ , Dean, hit me like you mean it.”  


  
This time, he really does, fist connecting with Sam's face, satisfying meaty thud. Sam's head snaps back, and Dean can feel it in his knuckles, but Sam just gives him another fierce wolfish grin. “That all you got?” _That's it, fuckin' smug asshole, he's got it coming_. Dean really goes for it now, fast uppercut followed by a jab to the solar plexus. Sam takes the first hit but dodges the second easily, and then it's on. Not quite a knock-down drag-out fight, something between a sparring match and a bar brawl, back and forth across the gravel parking lot of a Forest Service rest stop along some nameless highway. The pain and the adrenaline are working; Dean's starting to wake up now. He thinks they might be somewhere in West Virginia.  


  
Dean gets Sam pinned, and he taps out. Dean's pretty sure Sam could have unpinned himself if he'd really wanted to (his pansy-ass baby brother turned into the God-damn Incredible Hulk while Dean wasn't paying attention) but this isn't that kind of a fight, apparently. Dean's still not really sure what kind of fight it is, but he's starting to think his little brother might have a point. He actually feels warm for the first time since waking up in that motel room. He can feel the thin spring sunshine. The air is fresh and cool, and he thinks there might be fuckin' birds chirping somewhere nearby. This is bad. He knows that this can only lead to pain, like feeling returning to extremities after a bad frostbite. Sometimes it's better to just stay frozen.  


  
“Ow! Fuck, dude, I think you loosened a tooth!” Sam says, sprawled beside him on the gravel.  


  
Dean climbs to his feet, offers Sam a hand. “C'mon, Tyler Durden, let's get you cleaned up.”  


  
He may have no goddamn idea what's going on here, or what goes on in his brother's head, but injured Sammy he knows; he's got this one. He parks Sam at a picnic bench, grabs some fast-food napkins from the stash in the car, and wets them in the water fountain. He dabs at Sam's face – kid'll have a hell of a shiner, a split lip and a small cut across his eyebrow; but there's no real damage. Sam is easy and pliant beneath his careful hands, and Dean is suddenly overwhelmed with a surge of gratitude that he gets to do this, that Sam lets Dean take care of him this way, and how fucking pathetic is that, to be grateful for the chance to clean blood off someone's face? _Come on, Winchester, keep it together_.  


  
Sam looks up at Dean with that soft little smile that Dean used to think was just for him. It aches like an old wound, like everything Dean though they had but apparently was wrong about, all that shared history which doesn't seem to have been shared at all. He kind of wants to punch that smile right off Sam's mouth, and also to try and save it somehow, preserve it, something to use like a talisman against the sneer Lucifer will be wearing on Sam's face when he snaps Dean's neck.  


  
Dean can't just stare at his brother's smile, though, he needs to pay attention, has to listen to what Sam's saying. Can't afford to let his guard down here, Sam'll take advantage, he'll worm his way back into Dean's heart. He doesn't think he take that again, nobody has the power to hurt him the way Sam does. He feels too raw, too exposed, he just can't afford to be that vulnerable.  


  
Sam looks up at his brother' face as he tends his wounds, not tender exactly, but careful, precise. “I think maybe you missed the point about Heaven,” Sam says quietly.  


  
“Oh yeah? And what point would that be, college boy?” Dean snaps back.  


  
Sam sighs. He can see Dean re-building his walls, snapping the bravado back into place. Sam knows he doesn't have much of a window here before Dean's gone again, lost in his own misery.  


  
“Look, I don't know why we saw the particular memories we did. I don't know how much of what we saw upstairs was rigged. I don't know if Zachariah was screwing with us, picking moments he knew would set us against each other. Or - it might just be that my subconcious wasn't all that worried about reliving the Dean memories, since it the real you was right there with me.”  


Dean just looks at him, hands still, but he's listening, really listening. Sam can feel himself smiling, he thinks _maybe this is gonna work. It's got to_.  


  
“I mean, that's it, right? We'll have all the time in the world to compare memories, figure out what it all means, 'cause we're gonna be there together, right? That's the point, Dean!” He's waving his hands now, babbling.  


  
“You heard what Ash said, right? Everybody gets their own slice of Heaven. Ash over here on his cloud, Pamela on hers – everyone alone. But not us, Dean. We weren't in Samville and Deantown, we were in Winchester World. Together. Because it's not Heaven for either one of us unless the other one's there, and that's as true for me as it is for you, man.”  


Dean sits down at the park bench. Sam's on a rampage now, words tumbling out as fast as he can form them, and Dean can't do anything but hang on for the ride.  


"I know my memories hurt you, Dean. I was a kid. I was selfish and bratty and just like a normal kid, and I got to be that because of you, man. Family doesn't mean the same thing to me, y'know? When I was little, 'family' was what you and Mom and Dad had before me, before I was born and Mom died and we lost it all. I always thought it must be my fault somehow. And then when I got older I found out that it was Mom's fault, at least partly - she traded me for Dad, Dean. I know she didn't mean to, she never would have if she'd known, but that's what happened. And I got so _angry_ about all of it. But you, Dean - you've never let me down. You're the only one who's always been there for me. And that's what family means to me now, Dean. I know I left - I know I leave, I'm sure it's number one on the list of Most Annoying Things About Sam Winchester - but I came back. I will always come back. I'm always gonna choose you, Dean, just like you're you're always gonna choose me. It's what we do. Family's not who you were born to, it's who you _choose_. And you and me and Bobby, and Cas, we're all we've got. We've chosen each other."  


  
Sam's got that thousand-watt smile now, full-on dimples, and Dean's heart feels like it's going to seize.  


  
"You're it for me, dude. You are the most important person in my life, and how you don't know that, I don't fuckin' know, but - you're it for me. I'm twenty-seven years old, and there is no-one I'd rather spend eternity with than you. And if someone had asked that question when I was seven, or seventeen, I would have had the same answer. And I don't see that being any different at thirty-seven of fifty-seven, if I live that long."  


Sam's stopped now, well of words finally running dry, and he's waiting for Dean. He feels emptied out, like he's just broken himself open and spilled it all out on the floor, and the anxiety of waiting for a verdict, for any kind of response, is killing him.  


Dean smirks. "Soulmates, huh? That's what Ash said, right?. 'Sfunnny." He looks Sam up and down. "I always though mine would have bigger tits."  


Sam looks at him, surprised, but something in Dean's eyes must reassure him. "I could get implants?"

They're both laughing, now, deep, full-bodied, Dean can't remember the last time he laughed like this. He hold out his hand to Sam. "I want my amulet back.


End file.
